No matter who you are, there are times when you get nervous – and when you get nervous, something has to give. For some people it goes to their head and they get a headache. For some people it goes to their back and their muscles tense, resulting in a back-ache. Some people get a more general nervousness and they shake horribly. All I can say is, those people are lucky bastards. You heard me right, they are LUCKY. Because when I get nervous it goes straight to my stomach. And then it comes out in the form of a fart.
When I was a baby I got pneumonia, the lasting effect of which was that I have no sense of smell. I’ll tell you about it someday, but for now just realize that to me EVERY fart I do is potentially the killer fart from Hell. That means that if I fart, I always want to die of shame, I’m always convinced that it has the “silent but violent” potential to act like a Weapon Of Mass Destruction – and quite often other people agree with me. But I never know how bad my fart was, because I can’t smell it. I never know if anybody else knows, therefore I have to assume the worst and make a quick exit.
The trigger for my farting is usually one “innocent” thought that drifts across my mind and ruins everything…
“Wouldn’t it be AWFUL if I farted now!”. Bubble, bubble, my stomach starts to ferment. “Oh NO!” I tell myself “Not in the lift / job interview / beauty facial / Church*!” I clench my buttocks furiously, I try to relax my stomach, I think about flowers and rainbows… Rumble, hiss, thwarp. Damn.
Most tragically of all, this illness has robbed me of my greatest joy – Hanging out in the Bookshop. You see, I once farted in a bookshop. It was rather busy and I’d let the “innocent” thought drift across my mind once again. I farted, but ever-so-quietly. No one seemed to notice. I thought I’d got away with it (I hoped like crazy) and then the girl came from behind the counter and sprayed the shop with AIR-FRESHENER, paying special attention to the fallout zone around my ass (well, not too close but very definitely in a huge arc around me). I left in a hurry. I can never go into a bookshop now without the FEAR. And the fear leads to a fart. Waterstones, in The Arndale Centre, is huge but I can’t potter around in there, because by the time I’ve got to the back of the shop (Self Help and Children’s Literature) I’m brewing up a colon powered genocide. I am too nice to stay long enough to actually buy a book .
So all my books are now from Amazon and I’m reduced to trying to figure a way to stuff a shoe-shaped “Odor-Eater” down the back of my knickers. Of course by reading this I suppose you might run the risk of getting the “innocent” thought yourselves… Gosh, I hope I haven’t started trouble.
I’d better go, I have some Amazon shares to buy. And a cork.
* Delete, or add, as appropriate